PeaceKiller For Hire Snippet.(*New Patreon account*)

Synopsis:- Nort is the son of PeaceMaker. After his Dad dies, Nort inherits the Multiversal Hub, a room with Portals that lead to other dimensions. Hijinks ensue.

All 7 chapters are on my second Patreon account:- Patreon.com/SaintGenAi.

CHAPTER 1: OTAKU WITH A GUN.

If you’re expecting a heroic origin story, you’re already lost. Go read something else. Maybe some crap where the underdog discovers "the power of friendship" and saves the world with a glowing sword and a heart full of hope. Not this story.

This one starts with a guy in his pajamas, covered in chip dust, yelling at the TV because the ending of Attack on Titan sucked.

That guy is me. Nort Smith. Seventeen years old. Slightly overweight. Smelling faintly of Mountain Dew and bad decisions. Son of the Peacemaker. Yes, that Peacemaker—the guy who saved the world by offing the Crime Syndicate with the Suicide Squad before kicking the bucket like a true lunatic anti-hero. Everyone got statues. I got therapy bills. I was also 12.

My dad died a legend. I live like a side quest.

Anyway. Back to the anime. After 8 seasons of war crimes, Titan body horror, and enough screaming to make my ears bleed, it all ends with vague symbolism, moral ambiguity, and that classic "maybe genocide is bad, maybe it's not, who knows?" shrug. Very cool. Real satisfying.

I toss the remote onto the couch with enough force to make a point but not enough to break it. I’ve broken five. Dad’s room doesn’t restock universal remotes after the 5th one. According to Dadbot anyway.

"End of an era," I mutter, scratching the edge of my jaw. My stubble’s starting to look less like ‘cool assassin-in-training’ and more ‘guy who vapes behind a gas station.’ I consider shaving.

Then the room tries to kill the mood—again.

WARNING. UNAUTHORIZED TRAVEL DETECTED.

PORTAL [INV] ACTIVATED. HOSTILE ENERGY SIGNATURE CONFIRMED.

The voice comes from the AI embedded in the interdimensional travel system—aka the voice in my helmet, aka the sassiest piece of code ever programmed by someone who hated peace and quiet. Aka Dadbot.

“Unauthorized?” I say, sitting up so fast a bag of half-eaten Pocky spills to the floor. “You sure it’s not just another one of those admerch bots from Earth-7912? The last one brought me a Hatsune Miku body pillow.”

[Do I sound like I’m joking, Nort?] the AI snaps. [You’re the guardian of the Interdimensional chamber. That means when the light turns red, you grab a gun—not another snack.]

“I am grabbing a gun.” I shove my hand under the couch and yank out my revolver, still warm from napping on it. “See? Responsible adult behavior.”

I slap my helmet on, the HUD flickering to life in a wash of pale blue.

[Damage-nullification system online. Targeting system warming up.]

Paranoia levels rising. My specialty.

Dad left me this room—his one big inheritance. A room full of portals to other universes. I also inherited the job of making sure none of those portals got us all nuked if something unfriendly came through. Or an atomic bomb. Think of it as babysitting with cosmic consequences.

He also made sure the AI locked me out of actually using any of the cool stuff until I turned eighteen. Because apparently teaching your kid 38 ways to disarm a gunman is fine, but God forbid I walk through a magic door unsupervised.

So for five years I’ve just... watched the Multiversal Netflix- think of it as Interdimensional cable from Rick and Morty. Every universe, every story, every trope, every letdown.

Some kids dream of being heroes. I dreamed of being left alone to content consume and judge from my imperial perch on the old beaten couch.

The chamber hums louder now. Portal [INV] is glowing a deep, angry red—like blood, or overpriced gamer chairs. I position myself behind the safety rail, revolver aimed dead center.

"Alright, mystery jackass. Come on through. Let's see if you're worth wasting ammo on."

[You should’ve kept up with your combat training.]

"Wow, thanks, DadBot. Real supportive."

[I'm not your dad. I'm a hyper-intelligent AI. I don’t lie to make you feel better.]

And then it happens.

The portal lets out a crackling surge of energy—red lightning, sharp as a scream—and someone gets thrown out. Not struts out. Not steps out. Thrown.

She crashes to the ground like a sack of bleeding glitter.

Pink costume. Torn up. She’s bruised, scraped, probably half-dead, and very much not an alien warlord.

I lower the gun instinctively.

"Wait... no way," I mutter. "Is that—?"

[Confirmed. Atom Eve. Universe: Invincible-138. Status: Critically wounded. Currently bleeding on your floor. Try not to make it weird.]

I rush forward without thinking. The revolver's still in my hand, but useless now. I recognize her. Of course I do. I watched her vaporize tanks with a wave of her hand. I watched her die in like five different alternate episodes. She’s one of the good ones. One of the few heroes who wasn’t an arrogant preachy psycho with a messiah complex.

And now she's lying in my arms, eyes fluttering, lips trembling.

"Help..." she whispers.

And I’m suddenly, horrifyingly aware that I have no idea how to deal with a bleeding woman in my dad’s forbidden cosmic garage.